


Wild Rose

by celtic7irish



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Author relied on Google, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Slow Build, Timeline Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 17:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10881426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celtic7irish/pseuds/celtic7irish
Summary: Modern AU - Bucky is on a much needed road trip and his car ends up breaking down while passing through a small town. He knows a bit about engines but definitely not enough to fix whatever is wrong. The only repair shop in town turns out to belong to a secluded engineer.





	Wild Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZeeK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeeK/gifts).



> SYMPTOMS OF A HYDROLOCKED ENGINE: If an engine hydrolocks while at speed, a mechanical failure is likely. Common damage modes include bent or broken connecting rods, a fractured crank, a fractured head, a fractured block, crankcase damage, damaged bearings, or any combination of these. 
> 
> REPAIR: Physical damage to metal parts can manifest as a "crashing" or "screeching" sound and usually requires replacement of the engine or a substantial rebuild of its major components.

Bucky scowled down at his engine, resisting the urge to start ripping pieces out of it just for kicks. He was pretty sure he knew what the problem was – the flooded road just outside of town was a pretty big hint, as was the bent and cracked cylinder – but he had nowhere near the expertise to fix this.  Especially not in the middle of wherever he was now.

 

Looking around, Bucky caught sight of the quaint little town sign. Well, that answered that question, he supposed.  He was in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, Population: 697.  Fantastic.  Did this place even have a mechanic? Or would he have to get his car towed another hundred miles or so to the next decent-sized town?

 

Well, he supposed his car wasn’t going anywhere. Locking the doors and leaving a quick note tucked under the wipers – and another one on the dashboard just in case a storm came or something – Bucky headed into town.  If nothing else, he supposed he could probably find a phone, or a place to charge his own, which had died two days previous.

 

It didn’t take him long to locate the nearest place to eat. Vintage Café boasted a small antique shop, floral tablecloths, and simple sandwiches and drinks.  Bucky ordered a reuben and a coke from the redhead behind the counter before settling at a nearby table and pulling out his phone, frowning down at the blank screen.  He glanced around, but didn’t see any obvious power outlets, and this place didn’t have WiFi, so he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get bars out here.

 

“We have a phone in the back if you need to call someone,” the woman spoke up from behind him, startling Bucky. She smiled at him.  “Sorry about that, _chuzhoy_ ,” she apologized, and Bucky blinked.

_“Vy iz Rossii?”_ he asked curiously.  The look he got this time was sharper, more wary.  Bucky slumped, keeping his hands on the table.  He wasn’t a threat, not anymore.  Today, he was just a guy on a much needed roadtrip with a busted car engine and in desperate need of a mechanic.

 

“I am,” she agreed, “but you’re not, right? Not originally.”

 

Bucky smiled wryly. “Is my accent that bad?” he asked, drawing a small chuckle out of his hostess as she set his soda and a basket of hot fries on his table.

 

“It’s good,” she disagreed. “But you’re not comfortable speaking it.”  She held out her hand to Bucky, who shook it firmly.  “I’m Natasha.”

 

“Bucky,” the soldier answered honestly. “Bucky Barnes.”

 

Natasha’s grip was firm and confident, and Bucky was glad he’d offered her his flesh hand. “So, what brings you to Wild Rose, Bucky Barnes?” she asked.

 

Before he could answer, the swinging doors that led to the kitchen area swung open, and a slender blonde stepped out, carrying the rest of Bucky’s meal. Natasha smiled at him as he set the plate on the table in front of Bucky.  “Thank you, Steve,” she murmured. 

 

“No problem, Nat,” Steve replied, eyeing Bucky carefully. The soldier gave him a rakish grin and a wink, turning on the charm, and he flushed a brilliant red before scurrying back into the kitchen.

 

“That wasn’t nice,” Natasha scolded him, but he could hear the amusement in her voice.

 

Picking up his sandwich, Bucky took a bite. Then he took a second, much longer one.  “Oh, god,” he mumbled after he swallowed.  “That boy can cook.”

 

“Hands off, _vorovka_ ,” Natasha told him, then wandered off to do whatever it was she did between customers.

 

Bucky ate his sandwich quickly, then slowed down a little for the fries. They were still hot, nice and crispy on the outside, with a seasoning that Bucky had never had before.  If he’d had any interest in cooking, maybe would’ve asked Steve what he used, but Bucky lived mostly off of microwavable foods and the occasional pizza.  Maybe he’d ask anyhow; Sam would probably like to know.

 

Natasha returned to grab the empty plates and drop another soda and the bill on the table. “Ah,” Bucky stalled her.  “I don’t suppose you know of a mechanic, do you?”  He gave her his best shamefaced look.  “I sort of busted up my engine, and I don’t think I can fix it myself.”

 

The redhead considered him for a moment. “What type of car?” she asked.

 

Bucky blinked, wondering why it mattered. A car was a car, and a mechanic fixed cars, right?  “Umm…1969 Chevrolet Camaro,” he answered her.

 

“I’d suggest you lead with that,” Natasha said ominously. “Steve!” she hollered.  Bucky flinched before he could catch himself, but Natasha wasn’t watching him anymore.

 

The blonde stuck his head through the kitchen doors, saw that Bucky was there, and blushed, keeping his eyes very firmly on Natasha. “Yeah?” he asked.

 

Natasha jerked her thumb back towards Bucky. “Take him to see Tony, would you _, moya lyubov_?“ she asked.  Behind her turned back, Bucky grinned widely at Steve, who scowled back at him before nodding to Natasha.

 

“Sure,” he agreed easily. He glanced at Bucky.  “We leave in ten.”  With that, he disappeared back into the kitchen.

 

Natasha turned back to him. “Now that’s settled,” she stated, “would you like to borrow the phone?  Tony will probably have an outlet you can borrow to charge yours.”  Her tone seemed to indicate that even if he did, she wasn’t entirely sure this guy Tony would let Bucky use it.

 

Bucky nodded. “I’d appreciate it.  My phone died, and I promised I’d call.”  He didn’t mention that Sam had threatened to send Clint after him if he didn’t call regularly to let them know he was still alive and in the country.  Bucky didn’t know what he saw in the two men that he considered his best friends, but he couldn’t deny that knowing they were watching out for him was something he’d come to rely on, more than he’d like.

 

Natasha brought him to a small, cluttered office that doubled as a lounge, judging by the long couch and couple of chairs strewn about the place. As promised, there was a phone sitting on the desk.  Nat gave him instructions on how to use it to call out, then left him to it with a warning to not touch anything else.

 

With a sigh, Bucky lifted the headset off the cradle and dialed a number he’d memorized nearly eight months ago. The phone rang once before it was picked.  “Wilson’s phone,” a familiar voice – not Sam’s – answered, and Bucky paled.  “Nat, why are you calling this number? Is there something you need to tell me?”  Bucky made a choking noise, and Clint paused.  “You’re not Nat,” he stated flatly.

 

“Ah, no,” Bucky agreed. “No, I’m not.  Is there something _you_ want to tell _me_?” he asked faintly, his head reeling.

 

“Oh, shit,” Clint swore. “Bucky.” The soldier could hear another male voice on the other side of the line.  “Yeah, no, it’s Bucky.  He’s in Wild Rose.”  There was a pause while Sam said something else that Bucky couldn’t make out.  “No, it’s in Wisconsin.”  Another pause, then a huffed laugh.  “Yeah, he’s with Nat. And Steve.  I have no idea how.”

 

“I busted my car,” Bucky admitted. “After my phone died.” There was long pause on the other end of the line.

 

“Put Nat on,” Clint ordered. Bucky looked around, expecting the room to be empty, but the redheaded hostess was standing nearby, leaning casually against the wall.  Bucky suppressed the urge to throw the phone at her and flee.

 

Bucky held out the phone. “It’s for you,” he said, nonplussed.

 

Natasha tipped her head curiously, but accepted the phone. “Natalia Romanova,” she greeted.  Brown eyes flicked in Bucky’s direction.  “You need to stop picking up strays, Barton,” she said.  Bucky scowled; he wasn’t a damn sob story, picked up off the side of the road and brought home to the family.  He was a soldier who’d done some terrible things and just needed some time and distance to get his head on straight.  Hence the road trip – _without_ any passengers.  He’d go back to New York when he was good and ready, and not before.

 

Irritated now, Bucky turned and stalked out of the room – and right into Steve. The blonde sidestepped quickly, though, watching him with wide eyes.  “Sorry,” Bucky muttered, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and heading out of the café, turning right, down the main road.  He still needed a mechanic, and since he hadn’t passed one on the way in, the guy was probably this way.

 

Footsteps hit the pavement behind him, and Steve called out, “Hang on. I’ll take you to Stark’s garage,” he offered.  “It’s kinda out of the way, since Stark doesn’t like people,” he added.  Bucky gave a grudging nod, allowing the other man to lead the way.  “My name’s Steve Rogers, by the way,” his companion offered.

 

Bucky ignored the expectant pause, and after a moment, Steve sighed, falling silent, which suited Bucky just fine. Unfortunately, the other man apparently didn’t like the quiet, because after a moment, he asked, “Who were you calling?  How do they know Natasha?”

 

Bucky glared at him, but Steve was undeterred. “None of your business, and ask her,” he answered shortly.  Steve frowned, but Bucky didn’t care, picking up the pace and forcing Steve to either speed up as well, or get left behind.  The town couldn’t possibly be that big, and Bucky was sure he could find the mechanic even if it took a little while.  Anything would be better than listening to this scrawny punk blather on.

 

“This way,” Steve said after a moment, redirecting them down a side road. Bucky glanced at the sign as they passed: Mill Street.  Seemed easy enough.

 

The garage wasn’t really that far from the Vintage Garden Café at all, but Bucky would’ve walked right past it where it was tucked away behind a wall of trees surrounded by barb wire. Only the fact that Steve had stopped made him realize that there was actually something there.  “This it?” he asked gruffly.

 

Steve nodded. “Yeah, there’s a small gap in the wire over there,” he said, pointing.  “Then just go straight back.  You can’t miss it; it’s the only building that looks like a tornado hit it.  Several times.”

 

Bucky stared at him. “What? You’re not gonna introduce us?” he asked.  Not that he really minded, but he was starting to get the feeling that he might not be welcome.

 

Steve flashed him a quick grin. “Nope.  Stark doesn’t like me,” he said, completely unbothered by it.  “You know how to get back?”

 

Bucky nodded; it was two roads. He was pretty sure he could manage that, when the two places were less than half a mile apart. 

 

Steve nodded, then gave a cheerful little wave. “Good luck!”  And with that, he left Bucky standing in the lane, staring stupidly after him.  Bucky turned back to stare at the fence, only now noticing the various _No Trespassing_ signs scattered around the place, though the most interesting ones by far said _Beware of Bots_.  With a sigh, he set about finding the entrance that Steve had mentioned.

 

Making his way through the gap in the fence, Bucky found himself staring at a garage unlike anything he’d ever seen before. “What tornado?” he muttered, staring at the sleek lines and modern design.  The whole place looked like it belonged in some architectural magazine on wonders of the world.  Bucky found himself just staring at the eight doors to the place, and the curved roof, light glinting off of reflective panes.  Bucky had seen something similar when he went through the Strip in Las Vegas, a giant pyramid casino that could open and close reflective pane windows on a whim, transforming dull gray opaque panes to brilliantly lined glass.  All that was missing was the damn sky beam.

 

Swallowing, Bucky headed for the small door at the far left of the eight garage doors intended for, Bucky assumed, cars. For a town as small as Wild Rose, this place seemed overly excessive.  Surely this Tony Stark didn’t need that much room?

 

Stepping inside – and somewhat surprised that the door was unlocked – Bucky’s breath hitched. Tony didn’t need the garage space for _repairs_.  He needed it for restoration.  There were at least a dozen old model cars sitting the garage, some with open hoods, others with parts strewn around them, a few broken down to just the frame and chassis.  Bucky recognized some of them – Buick Riviera, Ford Model A, Pontiac Grand Prix, Cadillac, even an Oldsmobile Cutlass.  Others, he had no idea, beyond recognizing a few of the brand symbols.

 

Giving a low whistle, Bucky startled when it was repeated at a much higher tone. Turning his head towards the source of the noise and crouching into a more defensive position, Bucky blinked, his brain taking a minute to process what he was seeing.  Was that a robot?  With one arm?  And a….fire extinguisher, which it was wielding threateningly in his direction.  A series of beeps and whirs came from it as it moved towards him, faster than he would’ve expected on treads like that.

 

“Whoa, whoa!” Bucky exclaimed, holding his hands up in a I-mean-no-harm gesture. “I’m just here to see Mr. Stark, I didn’t mean to trespass.”  The bot paused, seeming to eye him suspiciously from the camera mounted on its frame.  Bucky looked around, hoping that perhaps the elusive Mr. Stark would show up.  When nothing happened except that the bot gave a menacing clack, moving closer and brandishing the extinguisher, Bucky swallowed.  “I busted my Camaro, and was told you could fix it!” he blurted. “Steve and Natasha sent me.  That’s all, I swear.”

 

The bot stilled, and this time, the beep sounded questioning. “Uh…I’m sorry,” Bucky apologized, flushing dully at the thought that he was talking to a _non-verbal mobile arm_ , of all things.  “I don’t speak robot.”  His left arm clicked as if in agreement, which drew the robot’s attention. It trundled its way over to him, and Bucky held his breath.  As it drew closer, he caught sight of the stenciling on its chassis.  “DUM-E?” he mumbled out loud, grimacing.

 

The bot beeped excitedly, nudging him hard enough to make him stumble. With a yelp, Bucky backpedaled, but the bot just followed him.  “Okay, okay, already! I get it, you won’t help me.  Just call off your guard-bot here, and I’ll be on my way," he called out into the empty room, hoping that the garage's owner was nearby.

 

There was a sharp whistle. “Dummy, what are you doing? I told you to watch him, not maul him.”  The bot paused, its camera swiveling to face the far wall, where the voice was coming from.  “Go on, back to your station.”  A moment later, a man walked into the garage, and Bucky stilled, his eyes taking in the other man, sweeping over familiar features.  He knew him from somewhere.  But he couldn’t remember where, or when, and he made an involuntary noise of frustration, which neither man nor bot seemed to hear.

 

With an unhappy whine, the bot moved off, over towards another corner of the room where there appeared to be a series of charging stations. Two other robots were already settled in their cribs, powered down and seemingly lifeless.

 

“I’d apologize, but you’re the uninvited guest here,” the man – Tony Stark, he presumed – pointed out. “So I won’t.  What do you want?”

 

Bucky swallowed. The other man wasn’t particularly intimidating, standing just a few inches taller than Bucky in a pair of tatty jeans and a black tank top, his arms and face covered in black grease and oil, his hair a mess, as if he’d just woken up, but there was something about him that made Bucky stand straighter and take notice.

 

Stark peered at him curiously for a long moment. “Do I know you?” he asked.

 

Bucky frowned. “I don’t think so.  Not unless you’ve been in the army.”

 

Stark made a face. “No.  God no.”  He shuddered. “Ah, sorry.  I mean, good for you and all, and thanks, I guess, but the army and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms anymore.”  And just like that, it clicked in place.  Bucky hadn’t recognized him, because who would expect the missing heir apparent of Stark Industries – now Stane Enterprises – to be here, in rural Wisconsin, of all places?  HE hadn't remembered the kid's name, and only vaguely remembered the tragic story of a teen who had lost both parents in a tragic accident.

 

Bucky swallowed hard. Obviously, if Stark was here, then he didn’t want to be found.  Bucky was certainly not going to be the one to tattle on him.  “Umm…yeah, okay,” he shrugged.  “So can you help me or not?”

 

Stark blinked, then nodded. “Oh, yeah.  I guess…yeah.  A Camaro, you said?” he asked.

 

Bucky smiled. “Yeah, a 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z28 RS, if you want to get technical,” he murmured.  “I busted up somethin’ in the engine.  I think I might’ve hydrolocked it,” he admitted sheepishly.

 

Stark snorted. “Which would’ve probably bent, cracked, or shattered something else and left you stranded outside town,” he surmised.  Bucky nodded.  “Well, I guess it’s your lucky day, then,” Stark told him.  “I just so happen to keep parts for 1960s Camaros.  Somewhere,” he muttered, turning his head and giving a sharp whistle.  Over at the far wall, the three bots lifted their head-equivalents curiously and chirruped eagerly.  “Dummy, Butterfingers, You, get to work.  I need parts for a 1969 Chevy Camaro!”

 

With excited rumbles, the three bots trundled off their stations and scattered in different directions, heading for cabinets and benches and shelves, occasionally bumping into something on the way. Tony sighed.  “Sorry, they’re spatial recognition is pretty pathetic,” he murmured.  “Now, how about we go and pick up your car?” he suggested.

 

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he said.  “You sure you don’t mind me comin’ along?”  Steve had seemed to think that Stark didn’t care for people in general – and judging by the fact that he had robots for assistants, that might be true – but so far, Bucky wasn’t seeing it.  Well, other than the fact that he’d been interrogated by Dummy the moment he’d stepped in the door, he corrected silently.

 

Stark gave him an amused smile. “Steve brought you here, huh?” he asked.  Bucky nodded, and Stark’s grin widened. “I’ve convinced him that I hate everybody, except maybe Nat.”  He shrugged.  “I like my solitude, but I’m a mechanic.  Dealing with people is kind of a necessity if I want to work.”

 

Bucky shrugged. “Oh, I dunno about that,” he argued softly.  “Dummy did a pretty good job as a receptionist.”  The bot in question trilled cheerily at him, and Tony turned to stare at Bucky in astonishment.  Bucky frowned.  “What? Was I not supposed to say that or somethin’?” he asked, worried that he’d committed a faux pas within minutes of meeting the other man.

 

Stark shook his head. “No, not at all. Most people don’t like the bots, much less bother to remember their names,” he confessed.  Then he held out his hand.  “The name’s Tony, by the way,” he offered.

 

Bucky took his hand and shook it firmly, noting the moment that Tony realized his arm wasn’t exactly normal. Brown eyes widened, and Tony shoved his sleeve up without so much as a by-your-leave so he could see the shiny metal hidden under Bucky’s jacket.  Even without seeing anything else, Tony breathed out, “Is this…where did you get this?” he asked sharply.

 

Bucky looked down at his arm, still in Tony’s grip, and flexed his fingers, feeling the metal shift as it clicked into place, running through a basic diagnostic check. His prosthetic arm was a marvel of modern technology, created by Stark Industries before it switched hands following the death of its founder and became Stane Enterprises, a company focused solely on the manufacturing and building of weapons and other armaments for military use.  “I volunteered for it,” he replied instead.  Shivering as Tony traced his fingers up his wrist and forearm, he added hoarsely, “It still works jus’ fine.”

 

Tony blinked, then jerked his hand back quickly, flushing a dull red. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologized.  “Uh, yeah.  Let’s go get your car, okay?”  Brown eyes shifted up to meet his, and Bucky nodded.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed. Tony turned and walked away, Bucky following him (and if he admired the view a bit more than necessary, who could blame him?).  Back outside, Bucky took a deep breath and wondered idly if there was a bed and breakfast or something nearby.  After all, repairs might take a few days.  He’d rest, give Clint and Sam a call, maybe speak a little more with Natasha at the café, find out what her connection was to one of his best friends.  After all, Wild Rose seemed like a nice enough place for a short break.  It certainly had interesting people.

 

“Are you coming or what?” Tony called. Bucky picked up his pace.

 

And maybe, while he was here, he’d get to know his mechanic just a little bit better. He grinned.

 

Tony Stark, huh?

 

Nice.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS (VERY ROUGH):  
> • Chuzhoy – Stranger, Outsider  
> • Vy iz Rossii? – You are from Russia?  
> • Vorovka – thief  
> • moya lyubov' – my love
> 
> ZeeK - I hope you like this little fic. Sorry about the Steve/Nat pairing, it just sort of happened....


End file.
